It was the vehemence of the assault that surprised me. The attacker: my son. His weapon: my birthday cake. My birthday was last week. With Maria in our family now, I knew this year would be different than the usual … Continue reading
Does a mom experience any sweeter feeling than watching quietly from the staircase as her child, unknowing that he is being observed, makes French Toast for her birthday? Dad is out of town, and this is my boy’s own idea. “I thought of it last night before I went to bed. If you were still upstairs, I would have cut a flower from the garden for you.” He is his father’s son.
His brother comes downstairs sleepily, “You woke me up!” He is his mother’s son. He needs ample sleep and many reminders of things like other people’s birthdays. Consoled by news that his brother has made French toast, he lumbers to the table and puts his head down on his beloved Calvin and Hobbes anthology. His brother and I don’t mention the occasion for the French toast, giving him a chance to remember on his own. After a while I figure I won’t hide the ball, I’ll put it right in front of him, give him a break.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask. I lean in to his warm body wrapped in footed pajamas and reveal, “Today’s my birthday!” He consents to a hug, a smile, and a “Happy birthday.” That’s a whole lotta lovin’ from this one, in his current phase, and I know it. It’s a good reminder to accept my boys as the people they are, brilliantly unique.
It’s no lie that these small gifts from my two vastly different soul-boys fill me up. (The icing on my cake? No morning squabbles, no rushing out the door for school. Birthday miracles is the only rational explanation.)
Arriving at school, another hug is reluctantly offered by the tough guy: “But in the car, mom, where no one can see us.” I take what I can get. But when we are on the sidewalk, I do something dumb. I can’t help myself: I hug him again anyway. I know it’s not good for our relationship. I know I should respect his boundaries. Aachh…I’ll start tomorrow. “Hugging you is like eating a cupcake,” I say, trying to explain my weakness on his terms.
(Cupcake and photo by Jessica Heisen)
His countenance brightens. “Speaking of cupcakes…!?”
I smile and say, “We’ll see.” If I play my cards right, there may be another hug and kiss in this day yet.
Some balls just get away. They fly over the center fielder’s head, past the white fence, or drop two feet to the left, lost in the sun. Some games get away like that, too.
Never mind that a little brother has dressed like an Oriole, an honorary mascot that the team has allowed in the dugout all season, today decked out in orange face paint, orange and black feathers, and a beak that was painted the perfect shade of orange.
Everything thought of and arranged and planned for. Everything, that is, but the other team’s bat, their incessant homeruns and ground rule doubles, again and again, unanswered. Sigh.
No matter the few great plays and big hits our team had, no matter the spirit and high hopes they brought to the field; trepidation and fear walked into the dugout, too. Their opponents had come off a week of wins, fighting just to get into this game. Our kids had a week off, too much rest from battle. No taste of vanquished teams on their tongues.
There will be one more chance. One final championship game.
The team told the little mascot not to dress that way next time: no makeup, no feathers, no beak. It’s simple baseball superstition; whatever was different about this loss is banished, along with it the taint of loss. I hope he doesn’t take it to heart, doesn’t feel he is to blame. My heart’s instinct is to jump out and stand in front of the words fired at him like bullets. He’s too much of a scientist to think his outfit caused the mighty Tigers to hit perfect grounders down the third base line. My protection would draw attention to the attack.
The mascot runs off the field to the park bathroom and emerges with a remarkably clean face, cleaner than it’s been in days, a pale outline of orange above his ears and eyebrows. He shakes it off. There’s one more chance, he says.